


A Christmas Present

by awoof



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Shopping, Christmas!, Greg in all his sarcastic glory, M/M, Reference to Many Happy Returns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-12 01:56:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9050674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awoof/pseuds/awoof
Summary: Greg decides to threaten Sherlock (like he always does) into doing some Christmas shopping for John and Mary's baby. Things happen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those who, like me, enjoy some quiet time alone curling on the bed and reading a festive fluffy fic with ever adorable Greg after all the happy chatter and greetings and meetings. Merry Christmas, everyone!

“No.”

Greg stops in the middle of entering the flat, hands still fumbling with the key, and pokes his head in through the narrow crack with a frown and his mouth agape.

“What?”

“I said no. Is that monosyllabic word unfamiliar to you, Lestrade?” Sherlock says. He whips his bow before setting it down on the table.

“I haven’t even said anything!” Greg protests.

“You are obviously here to ask me to do something that is unrelated to a case. And my answer: No,” Sherlock says, turning around to put down his violin.

Greg purses his lips, pauses in the doorway, before deciding that he would rather stay inside for at least an hour rather than go back onto the snowing streets to freeze his ass off. He will play host and pour himself a cup of hot tea.

“Why are you still here?” Sherlock asks in irritation as Greg comes inside while pulling his scarf off. He looks affronted when he sees the scarf, which is now on the couch. “And why are you wearing a red scarf?”

“I am here because we are doing some shopping later, like it or not,” Greg replies as he moves over to the kitchen and boils himself some water. He looks at Sherlock and grins, “And can’t you figure out why I am wearing a red scarf by making your _keen_ observations?”

“Recently bought, cheap quality. Still has a tag on it–“ Greg looks over to the scarf, which has a tiny tag sticking out from between the scarf and the sofa, “–so definitely not a gift from someone, unless they are really careless, which none of your friends, and by friends I am referring to those who you see more than once a year, which include Mrs. Hudson, John, Molly, and Donovan, are. That means you bought it recently. Not for comfort, your normal grey one is of much higher quality than this cheap one, so for special purpose. You don’t like red. Too bright. You picked this color specifically. So red is symbolic for that special occasion. Something worth spending money on, but not personally significant enough to spend more money on. A public occasion then, which narrows down to public event or festival. Festival would be more likely, seeing you rarely go to public events. But what festival? What festival occurs at this time of the year? Festival, festival, festival…” Sherlock frowns and taps his finger on his chair.

Greg snorts.

“What?” Sherlock snaps. “Tell me what it is.”

“Oh, I don’t know, something with Santa Claus and some carols?” Greg says as he pours the tea into a mug. He sighs happily at the warmth from the steam.

“What’s Santa Claus? Is it a person?” Sherlock stares at Greg.

“The big jolly guy with red hat who delivers presents down chimneys on his reindeer sledge? Ring a bell?”

“No.”

Greg laughs. He goes back into the living room and points at the newspaper headlines on the coffee table.

“Christmas, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stares at him for a second, and then rolls his eyes.

“I am not doing _Christmas_ shopping, Lestrade,” he spits out the word like it is venomous. Greg just looks at him, and realization dawns.

“Oh for God’s sake, you are going to threaten me again, aren’t you? Bullying me into satisfying your every whim. I sometimes do wonder how bad an influence Mycroft is on you,” Sherlock snaps.

“I have that tape,” Greg raises his eyebrows and lifts his phone from his pocket.

“What tape– oh,” Sherlock breathes, and then stares pointedly at Greg, “You won’t do that.”

“Who knows?” Greg shrugs.

Sherlock deflates and sighs.

“Why are we doing Christmas shopping anyway? We never do it!”

“Well, a first for everything, doesn’t it?” Greg grins.

“No, Lestrade. Go away.”

“It’s also the first Christmas of little Sheryl,” Greg mentions offhandedly as he sips his tea. He looks at Sherlock for his reaction.

He knows Sherlock has a soft spot for John and Mary’s baby. Even though he would never admit it, for all his bemoaning of the dullness and stupidity of the baby, Greg could see that Sherlock cares about the baby as much as, perhaps even more than, John. He could even claim that, perhaps, Sherlock loves the baby, from the way he changes the diapers while complaining about the toxicity of the absorbent (he is sure it is not toxic at all even to baby standards) to the way he holds the baby in his arms and frowns at her like she’s the most intriguing and unfathomable creature in the world. And Greg loves watching them, watching the cold immovable mask slowly ebb away to an almost loving face when the two look at each other and one of them coos and grabs his nose. It’s almost surreal, and Greg can’t help but smile, not able to look away from the face.

Said face loses the edges and turns toward the windows.

“It’s snowing.”

Greg smiles.

“Yes, genius. Now let me finish my cuppa and you can get something more than just your bloody coat before we go catch a cab to the shopping center.”

In a flurry of motion Sherlock rises from his chair and swiftly goes into his bedroom to change.


	2. Chapter 2

“This,” Sherlock holds up a jumbo pack of diapers.

“That’s a year’s worth of nappy changing,” Greg says, looking horrified.

“Half a year,” Sherlock corrects, “Babies wear diapers for three years on average. This is only one sixth.”

“Sherlock, I don’t think John will really need any more nappies for now,” Greg says, and reaches out to lift the gigantic pack of diapers from Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock frowns unhappily but lets Greg take it away.

“It will be a practical gift. Much more useful than a giant _teddy bear_ ,” Sherlock complains, and shoots Greg a why-are-you-so-ridiculous look.

“I think Sheryl will like a big cuddly toy more than a life supply of diapers, don’t you think?” Greg remarks as he heaves the diapers back on the shelf, panting slightly.

“She won’t be able to even tell you and the teddy bear apart,” Sherlock mutters as they walk along the aisle of the department store.

“Oh, thank you,” Greg says sarcastically.

“That was a compliment,” Sherlock says. He catches sight of an aisle with formula milk and brightens up. “Ah! That.” He points towards the shelf and quickly walks forward. Greg catches his wrist before he can go and take the whole shelf down.

“Sherlock, for God’s sake, we are buying presents, not stocking up for a bloody lockdown,” Greg says, exasperated.

“Then what do you suggest, Scotland Yard?” Sherlock rounds on him, annoyed.

“Absolutely no idea,” Greg admits and shrugs. Sherlock glares at him, and then glances down at his hand, which is still being held at the wrist. Greg clears his throat and awkwardly lets Sherlock go, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. The moment is silence is broken by a voice behind them.

“Buying presents for your kid?”

They turn around to see a saleswoman smiling warmly at them. “I’m Clara. Do you two need any help?”

“Uh… we are not… we are just buying for…” Greg says and scratches his stubble, his gaze flickering to Sherlock.

“Our first baby, yes,” Sherlock suddenly smiles at the saleswoman and grabs Greg’s hand. He gives it a squeeze, and Greg shoots him a look. “Hello. I’m John. He’s my husband Greg.”

“Oh! Congratulations!” Clara, a charming lady in her thirties with pearl-white teeth, smiles widely at the two of them. “Is it a little boy or girl?”

“Baby girl,” Sherlock says, still smiling, “It’s her first Christmas, but we don’t know what to get for her present.”

“That won’t be a problem. Our products for toddlers are over that section,” Clara says, leading them towards their right, “And what might be the little girl’s name?”

“Sheryl,” Greg says.

“That’s such an adorable name,” Clara giggles, “How old is she?”

“Just 8 months,” Greg answers.

“8 months 11 days and 14 hours,” Sherlock corrects.

“I just happen to know the perfect gift for Sheryl. We can go down that aisle,” the woman points ahead.

“Perfect. Thank you,” Sherlock smiles.

Greg leans in and whispers in Sherlock’s ear conspiratorially as they walk behind the woman.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?”

“She obviously thought that we were a couple. People tend to be fonder of couples, especially those with babies. She’ll be more helpful,” Sherlock says quietly.

“Really,” Greg stares at Sherlock. Sherlock looks back at him.

They eventually settle on a set of toy blocks with chemical elements printed on them. Greg supposes they got lucky, because who the hell besides Sherlock Holmes buys a freaking periodic table for a toddler. (“She will get a head start in chemistry when she starts to develop the faculty for reading,” Sherlock said, sounding pleased. Greg snorted and said, “And I suppose she will be overjoyed with godfather one’s educational Christmas present.” Sherlock shot him a look, “Of course she would. She has just been saved from godfather two’s giant _teddy bear_.”)

“I’ll still need to get presents for Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft,” Greg tells Sherlock at the check-out line as they load the blocks into a large plastic bag. Sherlock nearly drops the bag on the floor when he hears the last word.

“Why the hell are you buying a Christmas present for Mycroft?” Sherlock almost hisses.

Greg almost grins at the reaction, but manages to keep a poker face, “Maybe I fancy him.”

Sherlock makes a disgusted expression.

“No one fancies Mycroft. He’s an arrogant manipulative and wicked man with a predilection for kidnapping people, and his biggest asset is a bloating waistline,” Sherlock says bitterly. He looks at Greg and adds, “Besides, you dislike him.”

“Well, that was five years ago,” Greg shrugs, biting his lips to stop from grinning at the disgruntled face. Sherlock almost seems jealous.

“He just uses you. You are not worth anything to him,” Sherlock says, picking up the bag of toys and leaving the shop with Greg. Greg blinks, and thinks about what Sherlock said. It pricks at something in his mind, something he has often flittingly thought about, but never the courage to ask himself.

“How would you know?” Greg asks, attempting to sound casual. He looks at Sherlock, who stops and turns around.

“Look at Baskerville; he just sent you over like you were his personal assistant. He got medical teams for me and John afterwards, but not you. The Culverton Smith case? He sent you to the frontlines without telling you the risks. And he didn’t even get you a doctor after you came back with a grazed shoulder,” Sherlock says and points at Greg’s left shoulder. Greg winces at the memory. “He doesn’t care about anyone. Everyone’s just a pawn on his chessboard.”

“Then who got me a doctor?” Greg asks, remembering the day after when he goes back to his office only to find a doctor sitting inside. He had assumed it was Mycroft’s handiwork.

“You never go to a doctor for anything less than a broken bone. John was in the hospital,” Sherlock waves dismissively. So Sherlock got the doctor? Did he really? He opens his mouth, just to find Sherlock already continuing walking.

“Hey-“

“Where are we?” Sherlock frowns at the shopping mall they are in.

“Westfield,” Greg says. He pauses, and then puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder lightly, “um Sherlock, just want to say-“

“I don’t know where to go here.”

“Main road should be that way,” Greg points to the right, “Down three levels. Sherlock-“

“No, where to go here to buy your little _presents_.”

Greg raises his eyebrow at Sherlock.

“I’m doing _more_ Christmas shopping, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Of course I know we are doing more Christmas shopping. Now where are we going?”

Greg looks at Sherlock incredulously for a brief second. Sherlock stares back with a questioning ‘well?’

“Uh…” Greg scratches the back of his head and then searches his pockets for the mall layout map. “Wait on…” He fumbles it open and moves his finger across the map. “There, second floor to our right. It’s a women’s perfume shop.”

Sherlock reaches over and plucks the map from Greg’s hands. He looks at the four places circled by Greg and then frowns at the last one.

“Really, that for Mycroft?” he makes a face.

“Well, I don’t really have an idea,” Greg shrugs.

“If you are still adamant on buying completely unnecessary presents for _Mycroft…_ ” Sherlock takes a pen from Greg’s pocket (Greg tries not to feel weird about it) and then circles the cake shop. “A chocolate cake and twenty cupcakes should be able to ruin his diet,” Sherlock says thoughtfully, “even though the best way of action is to not give Mycroft any presents.”

Greg sighs lightly.

“Look, it’s Christmas, Sherlock. I don’t care if Mycroft doesn’t give a shit about me. He saved your life. Twice. The man deserves a day of happiness on Christmas.”

“It’s just another day of the year. Being named Christmas doesn’t make it any different,” Sherlock says, irritated.

“Yeah, but doing something makes it different,” Greg says and looks at Sherlock. Sherlock huffs.

“Fine. But we are getting two chocolate cakes. And you are paying for one of them,” he says, “perfume shop?”

“Perfume shop,” Greg answers, and smiles a little too fondly at the silhouette of Sherlock swiftly making his way through the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the story turns out to be longer than I expected... continued on Boxing Day I guess (Pacific Time)...


	3. Chapter 3

Christmas Day arrives without a hitch.

Like last year, John rang Greg, telling him that they would have a Christmas party in their flat. Only it isn’t their flat anymore, but Sherlock’s flat. Greg doesn’t know what John did to make it happen; having moved out means that one doesn’t have a say in using the flat as one pleases anymore. Perhaps he threatened him, like Greg always does. Or perhaps Sherlock didn’t even get to object. John has his way of dealing with Sherlock. Greg likes his own way better.

The Christmas present exchange session, which Greg has been adamant that there be one, starts after the Christmas dinner.

“John,” Greg nods to the man and hands over his present.

“Ah, thank you, Greg,” John smiles and gives him his red box in exchange, “This is from me and Mary.”

“Ta,” Greg takes the present over. “I think you and Mary would like trying that,” Greg grins and motions at his little present in John’s hand.

“Please don’t tell me it’s something indecent in this company,” John laughs.

“I can’t guarantee that,” Greg grins.

“What have you given my husband?” Mary smiles and sidles up to John, the baby resting in her arms.

“You’ll know that tomorrow,” Greg smiles and hands out the second present, “For you.”

“Oh, thank you, Greg,” Mary thanks.

“And then this big bag is for little Sheryl,” Greg says as he lifts the bag from the floor and holds it for the wide-eyed baby to see. He smiles at her, “Like your Christmas present?”

“Oh, as if we know what’s inside,” Mary interjects and gently rocks Sheryl in her arms.

“Godfather one picked it out, even though godfather two said we should get you a teddy bear instead,” Greg tells Sheryl, who is making grabby motions at the bag, “So if you hate it, just throw it at godfather one.”

“Ah, no. We will not teach Sheryl to use violence to solve problems,” John says.

“Why are you two getting her present together anyway?” Mary suddenly turns around and asks. She looks at Greg with a smile that almost overshadows the sharp gaze in her eyes.

“Oh, I just thought Sherlock should get you presents,” Greg shrugs nonchalantly, “Figured we would pick the present together since he wouldn’t buy anything on his own.” He grins and adds, “Practically had to threaten him into doing it.”

“That’s sweet,” Mary says with a somewhat knowing smile.

“That must be a nightmare, shopping with Sherlock,” John says at the same time while sharing a look with Mary.

“Well, surprisingly, not really,” Greg says to John, “He even helped me pick out the perfume for Molly and the cakes for Mycroft.”

“I thought the whole secret Christmas present exchange thing is to keep the contents of the presents a secret, Lestrade,” Sherlock jibes in from his chair lazily.

“Oops,” Greg says awkwardly and looks to Molly, who is giggling. “Well, um, then I guess you already know what’s your present,” he says and hands out the red box to her.

“It’s fine,” Molly blushes and hands over her present, “Thanks for the perfume.”

“Thanks,” Greg takes the present and looks over at Sherlock, “But really he’s the one who did all the sniffing.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

Molly blushes even harder and moves over to where Sherlock is sitting.

“Merry Christmas,” she says quietly and hands out her gift.

“Under the tree,” Sherlock says without lifting his eye at Molly, pointing overhead behind the chair where he is sitting at the little Christmas tree with his violin bow.

“Uh… Okay,” Molly says in a squeaky voice, and awkwardly shuffles over to the tree and places her present for Sherlock under it.

“Should I put it here too, your majesty?” Greg asks Sherlock, who gives him a cursory glance.

“Put it neatly on the pile,” Sherlock says. Greg huffs and smiles and goes over to put his present down.

The rest of the Christmas exchange goes on in a similar fashion. Greg goes over to the kitchen to get his wine and stands next to John as Sherlock continues to direct the others to put the rest of his Christmas presents in a neat pile under the tree.

“I think he secretly likes getting all these little mystery presents,” Greg leans in next to John and lowers his voice conspiratorially. Sherlock’s eyes flick up at where Greg and John are standing in the kitchen, brows knitted together in a way that suggests he is trying to figure what they are whispering about.

“With all these puzzle boxes to solve I think it’s actually Christmas to him,” John says quietly back.

“What are you two talking about?” Sherlock asks.

“Nothing,” Greg and John say together.

With a scowl on his face, Sherlock goes back to playing a Christmas tune on his violin while Mary places the last gift on the pile. Mrs. Hudson fusses over him and says something along the lines of ‘this is so lovely, Sherlock!’

“I’d say it’s more about being in the center of attention,” Greg says quietly to John after a while when it seems like Sherlock has given up on figuring out their conversation, perhaps deeming it to be too inane to pay attention to.

“He has always been in the center of attention,” John points out.

“Perhaps he likes more,” Greg supplies. Sherlock raises his head and looks at them again, frowning. “He has had a significantly smaller audience after you left.”

“That’s just one.”

“He used to have you praising him all day,” Greg says.

“He used to have me yelling at him all day,” John corrects.

“And now you’re back,” Greg says. He looks at John. “Well, sort of.”

“Oddly, I don’t think he’s even looking at me,” John says after a beat.

“Really?” Greg asks quizzically, and frowns, “I think he’s looking at both of us.”

“Whatever you are saying, Lestrade, the way your nose wrinkles means you have made an erroneous assumption,” Sherlock says from the living room, and adds as an afterthought, “87% of the time.”

“You can’t simply know that I am wrong from looking at how my nose wrinkles,” Greg ridicules.

“You know he probably can,” John says.

“I don’t make erroneous assumptions 87% of the time,” Greg argues.

John clears his throat pointedly. Greg gives him a betrayed look. Sherlock rolls his eyes and goes back at his Christmas song.

After a long moment, John suddenly starts, “You know what that means, right?” He turns to look at Greg.

“What?” Greg asks, clueless.

John pats on his shoulder and leans in.

“He’s looking at _you_.”


	4. Chapter 4

Greg doesn’t know what to make of it.

So he drinks some more red wine and smiles whenever people are smiling, laughs when people are laughing. He may have caught John and Mary exchanging looks. He may have caught Sherlock looking at him, probably deducing what’s going on in his funny little brain. Or that might be the alcohol speaking. For all he teases Sherlock as a lightweight, he isn’t quite a heavyweight himself.

The Baker Street guests begin to bid their goodbyes as the clock strikes twelve. The family of three leaves first, when their youngest one starts to wail at the ungodly hour. Soon after, as awkward silence drapes over the flat, Molly also takes her leave and steps into the snowy night. Then there is just three. Sherlock mutters something under his breath that sounds like ‘thank god’ and stalks over to his microscope set-up, plops down on his seat and immediately puts his eyes against the binoculars. Mrs. Hudson fuses something about the mess and then goes downstairs. Greg stands at the corner of the room, still holding an empty glass.

“Well, um…” Greg says, shuffling on his feet, “I guess I’m leaving.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond.

Greg stands there for a moment and scratches his head.

Sherlock leans back and closes his eye, exhaling heavily, possibly in irritation.

“If you are not going to ask your question, then _leave_.”

“Who said I have a question?” Greg plays dumb.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Every part of your body is yelling you have a question you are not willing to ask. Don’t act like you don’t know what I am talking about, Lestrade. Even Anderson can play dumb better than you, though I suspect most of time he _is_ actually being unbelievably idiotic.”

Greg sighs and runs his hand over his greying hair, tussling it into a mess.

He thinks about what John said. Apparently Sherlock bloody Holmes has been looking at him the whole time. Ok, maybe John was wrong. But the thought alone makes him shiver, makes him feel… special. Sherlock _notices_ him. Even when John, Sherlock’s _best friend_ , whom he hasn’t seen in _months,_ was just standing next to him. And he stared at Greg of all people…

No, it’s stupid. Obviously John’s wrong.

But…

But what if…?

His mind travels to the flitting gazes at crime scenes; the brushing touches when they work together; the feeling of Sherlock holding his arm at the mall; the almost jealous tone when he talks about Mycroft; and the words, lightly gliding over the fact that Sherlock hasn’t forgotten about him after the Culverton case, hasn’t dumped him like a rag doll, and amidst John’s hospitalization, arranged a doctor in his office to force him to have his wounds tended to…

Maybe it just means Sherlock cares about him. And don’t take him wrong, he is glad for that.

“It’s nothing,” Greg says, and clears his throat, “Forget about it.”

Sherlock looks at him with piercing gaze.

“Good,” Sherlock says curtly, “Door’s to your northwest.”

Greg nods.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says.

He walks over to the door and opens it. Before he leaves, however, he calls out to the kitchen, “Merry Christmas.”

Greg waits for a moment. But there is no response, so he turns around and leaves, closing the door behind him.

“And a happy new year,” a voice says quietly as the door snicks close.

 

Back in his flat, Greg slumps on his couch and throws his coat haphazardly over the chair a few meters away.

He doesn’t know what prompts him to do it. But suddenly he’s across the room, putting a DVD into the player and turning on the TV screen.

He gets a beer from the fridge and slumps back on the couch.

_“…state of knees…scrubbed…those two…Ow,” a voice, a familiar baritone, complains over the noise of the drunken crowd jeering and glass bottles clinking in the background._

_“No Donovan or Anderson. I told you,” he hears his own voice saying in mock sternness. He may have kicked Sherlock in his shin. “One more mention of either of them and I will call your brother to take you home.”_

_“You won’t do that,” Sherlock says quite confidently, coming into view as the phone jostles and points at the right way, showing a rosy-cheeked consulting detective swaying slightly on his stool brandishing an empty beer bottle with his right hand._

_“Who knows?” his own voice says as his hand pushes another bottle of beer toward Sherlock, “Come on. Drink it. You lost the bet.”_

_“You…not official DCI… yet…,” Sherlock says incoherently, glaring at the bottle, “Technicality…not lost,”_

_“The deal was if I made it to DCI before fifty five you would come drink with me as celebration,” Greg says, waggling a finger at him, “I’m officially a DCI next week. My fifty-fifth birthday is next month.”_

_“Get Mycroft…rescind…your position,” Sherlock leans forward and chuckles to himself nonsensically._

_“You just don’t want to admit you lost, do you?” Greg laughs. Sherlock huffs  and picks up the bottle of beer Greg has just pushed towards him, emptying half of it in one swing. He chokes._

_“Careful. Don’t want to lose my favorite brat to choking to his death,” he says and zooms in to Sherlock’s face as he bents over and coughs._

_“Not…brat,” Sherlock wheezes and finishes the rest of the bottle when he has recovered._

_“Twat?” Greg suggests helpfully._

_“Wanker.”_

_“Git.”_

_“Tosser.”_

_“Prat.”_

_“Dickhead,” Sherlock giggles and points at Greg like a child._

_“Come again?” Greg asks and moves closer to the half-dead figure, poking him in the ticklish spot on his waist._

But before Sherlock-the-drunken-detective could reply, there is a quiet snick at the door of the flat. Greg quickly pauses the tape and reaches for the gun under the table. He holds his breath.

“Really, Lestrade,” Sherlock saunters in and gives the TV screen a bored look, completely ignoring the gun pointed at him. He then moves across the sitting room and flops down on the couch next to Greg. Greg sighs and puts the gun back in its original place.

“Sherlock, why are you here?” He asks.

Sherlock holds up a hat in answer.

“Impatient, are you?” Greg asks, looking at the deerstalker he has just given to Sherlock as Christmas present, since Sherlock has thrown the last one in the Thames.

“It’s past 12. People open presents on boxing day.”

Greg glances at the clock. It’s past one in the morning.

“No refunds,” Greg says, nodding at the hat.

Sherlock gives him a look.

“I won’t wear that,” he says flatly.

“So you came all the way here to tell me that,” Greg says, also flatly.

“Of course not,” Sherlock says and puts the hat on the coffee table in front of them.

“Then what _are_ you doing here?” Greg crosses his arms, “Right after a Christmas party of all things.”

Sherlock looks like he wants to sulk.

“Mrs. Hudson says I should get a present for you,” he says, looking at the paused TV screen.

“Why?” Greg asks with a frown.

“She says I have to exchange presents. Since I already exchanged presents with everyone else with the gifts bought with you, that leaves you the only person who didn’t get a present from me,” Sherlock grumbles.

“You don’t need to get anything for me,” Greg says quickly.

“I know,” Sherlock answers. He then adds, “I didn’t get you anything.”

“Okay,” Greg says, confused, “Thanks for your nothing.”

Sherlock sighs in annoyance. He takes a deep breath.

“I still have a present for you.”

He turns around and faces Greg, who is totally at a lost what’s happening, and then takes out his phone, unlocking it to show some messages, and hands it to Greg.

“Don’t tell me it’s a case,” Greg says as he takes it.

As it turns out, it’s a segment of a conversation between Sherlock and John a while ago. John told Sherlock what he said to Greg.

“This was haunting your mind,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly, eyes boring into the brown eyes.

“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘haunting,’ but yes,” Greg replies, heartbeat starting to race.

“So what do you want to know?” Sherlock asks, and then adds impatiently, “And before you ask, yes, John’s correct.”

The flat falls into silence.

“So, were you…” Greg starts hesitantly, and then changes his mind, “Why… why were you looking at me?”

Sherlock draws in a deep breath and closes his eyes. Greg waits nervously.

“I find you pleasing to look at,” he finally says, looking at Greg.

“Well, good to know I’m still passably attractive,” Greg says, aiming at light humor.

“I’m not… that’s not what I _mean_ ,” Sherlock grits out in frustration. He briefly looks away before staring back at Greg intensely, “I don’t care about appearances– Well, fine, a bit–” he corrects when Greg raises an eyebrow. “–But… but… but…”

When nothing comes out, Sherlock makes some angry growling noise and stalks over to the kitchen.

“Forget it. Forget what I said,” Sherlock huffs, and then plasters a fake smile on his face and turns around, “Surprise! Nothing happened.”

“Sherlock,” Greg tries, following Sherlock into his kitchen and stopping a short distance from behind him, “Sherlock!”

“Go away.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but this is still my flat,” Greg says, and when Sherlock makes a motion to leave, he adds quickly, “Can we talk?”

“Have had quite a bit of conversation already, don’t you think, inspector?” Sherlock spins around and retorts.

“Sherlock, just…”

“No,” Sherlock snarls and turns to leave.

And in the most reckless act ever, probably to go down as the stupidest thing Greg has ever done, he grabs Sherlock and kisses him.

To his wonderment, Sherlock kisses back.

 

They sit in silence for a moment. Greg moves over a bit so that their hands just touch.

“Is that it? Is that all people do?” Sherlock asks.

“Well, they usually make out too, you know,” Greg mentions offhandedly.

“I haven’t had sex before,” Sherlock says.

Greg snorts. Sherlock glares at him.

“We can start slow,” Greg says, holding Sherlock’s hand in his, and gives it a light assuring squeeze. He can do it now. He doesn’t need to stop himself from reaching out needlessly anymore. Sherlock relaxes a little. “Want to watch the rest of the tape?” He asks Sherlock lightly and looks at him, “This is the uncut version. It’s quite… well… interesting.”

“There’s more of _this?_ ” Sherlock blurts out in question, looking aghast, “Why are you watching this anyway?”

“You’ll see,” Greg smiles and presses the play button.

_The screen comes up close to Sherlock’s drunken face. Greg’s voice is close to the microphone._

_“You were saying?” Greg asks dangerously and tickles him again._

_“Dick.. hehe… head,” Sherlock giggles and writhes out of the hand’s way. He points at Greg’s crotch. ‘Dick,” he explains, and then points at Greg’s forehead, “head.”_

_“Very funny, Sherlock,” Greg laughs, “Figured out I am a man, huh?”_

_“Of course,” Sherlock swings upright and smiles cockily, “7 inches.”_

_“Getting an eyeful?” Greg teases._

_“It’s simple male anatomy,” Sherlock says seriously and burps loudly._

_“Haven’t deleted this? Didn’t figure you’d keep anything related to sex,” Greg says as he catches Sherlock before he slumps to the floor._

_“Useful for identification,” Sherlock mumbles and completely leans on Greg’s shoulder, “Besides, I don’t… delete your room.”_

_“My room?”_

_“Your room, in my mind… thingy,” Sherlock says and jostles as Greg starts to half carry him to the door of the bar they are in._

_“Good to know. Am I Giles?” Greg says sarcastically._

_“Greg,” Sherlock says proudly._

_There is a pause._

_“Oh, you bastard,” Greg says and chuckles._

_Sherlock snuffs into Greg’s neck. Greg waves down a cab and gets Sherlock inside. He rattles off Sherlock’s address, hands over a wad of cash, and then helps Sherlock into his seatbelt. He’s about to leave when Sherlock grabs his arm._

_“Stay?” Sherlock asks, looking up at Greg half-deliriously._

_“Sherlock…” Greg starts, because they practically live on opposite sides of London, but then he takes one look at Sherlock and relents. “Well then, as you wish, your majesty.”_

_He closes the door and sits next to Sherlock, and his shoulder becomes a living pillow for Sherlock. Sherlock smiles._

_“Love you,” Sherlock says softly._

_The phone drops from Greg’s hand. The screen turns black and the sound cuts off._

“I did mean it.”

Greg looks at Sherlock, who is leaning on him.

“Just don’t expect me to say it,” Sherlock adds.

Greg smiles and holds Sherlock close. That’s enough for him. Best Christmas present ever.


End file.
